


tomorrow, today

by strawberryy



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Bang Chan-centric, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavily Implied Suicide Notes, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mental Illness, Nobody Dies, Not A Happy Ending but not too sad either, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, To clarify, a little tiny bit at the end but, his name is chris tho, i'm so sorry for this mess guys, i'm so sorry guys this is really sad and depressing, lapslock, the other members are only very vaguely mentioned as well i'm sorry :(, the ships are literally the vaguest thing u will ever read i almost don't even want to tag them but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 06:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryy/pseuds/strawberryy
Summary: the door closes with a dull thud behind him.his hands are cold.he walks down the hall with the words still pressing tightly at the back of his throat and his skin itching to dissolve off his bones.(he doesn't know why he couldn't justsay it)-(alternatively, a study in depression) *because of this, please read at least the last paragraph of my beginning notes or just carefully consider all the tags before you decide to read. <3)





	tomorrow, today

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mess guys, just a heads up. i feel like i say that a lot but i reeaaally mean it this time. i wrote this a while ago in a really bad headspace and was just reading through it again today. i 100% wanted more comfort to balance all the hurt at the end, but there's a 99.9999% chance i would never actually finish this fic if i actually tried to plan an ending, so at 1am i just made one up on the spot just so this wouldn't rot away in my drafts with all my other unfinished fics. so i'm sorry if the ending feels cheap or rushed. ;-;
> 
> because i feel like this subtle sort of depression just... isn't around a lot in fiction? or talked about? the people who feel it but literally never build up the courage to tell anyone, no build up, no climax, no dramatic reveal or eventual breakdown where they just can't take it anymore and tell someone, or worse, give up, they just literally always pretend they're fine every single time they have an episode, or literally all. the. time. if they simply feel that all the time. and i just really. wanted something like that to connect with. maybe you'll connect with it too in that respect, maybe you'll connect with it in another. regardless, i just wanted to post this since it was so long, so i'm making myself just d o it.
> 
> all that to say, please read this with caution if topics of depression, suicide ideation, suicide notes, or even just themes like that could be triggering for you in any way. 90% of this fic is just that, so if you proceed, please do so with safety and your own mental health in mind. <3
> 
> this is basically unedited, so apologies in advance.
> 
> rated T for swearing, dark themes  
> warnings for depression, mental illness, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation... iii think that's all of it? it actually sounds much worse than it is, like whump or something, but it's all mostly a long, drawn-out, vagueness of experience, all chopped up and disjointed in order to touch on all these different topics.

* * *

 

they have monthly evaluations.

 

they're technically called something else, but he prefers to think of them this way. make it seem like a training exercise or something. (he can do training exercises)

 

they ask their questions like they always do, and they're almost always the same.

 

he usually answers them honestly, a forced relaxation to keep any nerves in check, face somber but not emotional. he doesn't like being vulnerable but he thinks what they're doing is good, keeping up with all the trainees and their mental states. it's good. maybe it's not _ideal,_ but it's what they have and it's progress and it's _good._

 

he feels safer with it, feels safe with the nice man in the delicate glasses that takes diligent notes and speaks with a soft voice. on a personal level, he trusts him about as far as he could throw him. but when it comes to the man doing his job, he knows he has nothing to worry about. the man is _there_ to listen, to determine if there's anything to worry about, to notice red flags and warning signs and write them down in his notebook and help those who need it.

 

it's his _job._

 

(so he doesn't know why he can't just _say it_ )

 

so he lingers after the questions stop, hesitates still in his seat, hands pressed together, the man watching with calculated eyes until he longs to fall straight through the floor and bury himself in the ground. (if only)

 

he thinks it over, rolling the words around in his mind until they taste bitter on the back of his tongue. _too_ bitter, like he'll throw them up if he tries to say them out loud. it smothers him, chokes him until he thinks he might actually slip through the carpet and disappear, until he stands from the overly plush chair and bows politely at the nice man in the delicate glasses and takes his leave.

 

the door closes with a dull thud behind him.

 

his hands are cold.

 

he walks down the hall with the words still pressing tightly at the back of his throat and his skin itching to dissolve off his bones.

 

(he doesn't know why he couldn't just _say it_ )

 

-

 

sometimes he wants to die.

 

okay, maybe not _die._ (that's what he likes to think, anyway) it's just sometimes when he breathes it feels like oxygen itself is made of a vacuum and empty promises and emptier stares, when he looks in the mirror he thinks he doesn't know what living in this body, in this life, on this planet, is supposed to _mean_ or what he's supposed to _do_ with it or _why_ he's supposed to do with it.

 

sometimes when he's living it feels like his brain doesn't want him to be.

 

like existence doesn't fit very well on his particular set of shoulders. too small, or maybe too big. too something.

 

not existing would simply be easier, right? all the bad would go away and he wouldn't exist to miss all the good. it'd be a win-win situation. it makes sense.

 

that's what he likes to think, anyway.

 

-

 

music.

 

it's something he can do. music is what he's _supposed_ to do – what he _likes_ to do. it's what he _can_ do and what he can actually offer the world to make a difference. it's what he's sacrificed _six years_ of his very young life for, what he's chased after for even longer. it's what's in his veins, what he breathes. it's what he knows.

 

(maybe)

 

the clock reads a blurry three, colon, five, one.

 

three hours.

 

three hours, he's been working on this track. three _fucking_ hours. three _fucking_ cups of coffee. and absolutely fucking _nothing_ to show for it.

 

the keyboard buttons are too loud and the mouse keeps sticking and his hands are shaking and the screen is burning imprints on the back of his eyelids like a brand. the overhead light is still on but it doesn't stop the room from feeling the early morning hours just as starkly as the darkness outside, from feeling the empty silence that blankets the world in these few spare moments.

 

it'd be magical, perhaps. in a different world.

 

in this one, it just feels suffocating.

 

oxygen isn't the vacuum. (it can't be because everyone else is breathing just the same)

 

everything he pours into his laptop dries up within seconds and disappears with a press of a button. for someone who claims to live and breathe music, he sure can't prove it when push comes to shove. there's just nothing _there_ to write down, to produce, to _create._ there's nothing.

 

not anymore, at least.

 

(he's a fucking broken machine – not like broken as in hurt, damaged, but _broken,_ like an unsuccessful experiment, a failed prototype of something that wasn't supposed to be shipped to the market but it was anyway)

 

the doorknob turns and he glances at the clock before he glances at the door and it reads a blurry seven, colon, zero, nine, and jisung freezes in the doorway with almost comically rounded eyes but he realizes he's too tired to laugh.

 

“ _hyung,”_ and he knows what jisung's going to say before he says it, has heard it time and time again from both jisung and others alike.

 

he tunes it out for the most part.

 

just long enough to make it to the privacy of the bathrooms before he chokes the first sobs into his fist, where he cries behind lips glued shut until he can't even breathe.

 

-

 

he thinks about it more often after they debut. (he thought it'd feel different)

 

(it doesn't)

 

it's the best he's felt in a while, undeniably. his monthly evaluations are the same. he says what he always says, they ask what they always ask, and he doesn't feel like he's lying when he says he feels good. music plays out from his fingertips like he's an instrument himself, running like a record in his head all hours of the day, singing him to sleep, singing him awake. he smiles and he laughs with his members until his sides hurt and he doesn't feel like he's lying when he says he feels _happy._

 

it's not a lie at the time he says it.

 

or maybe it is.

 

lie or not, it's still an illusion, a vapor that slips straight through his fingers just as he's grasping tight. it's momentary, like all things in this life, and reality ( _his_ reality, it's _him_ ) slips back into it's natural state, it's _default_ state, like a well running dry all too soon.

 

oxygen isn't the vacuum. (it _can't be,_ but maybe it's his lungs)

 

nights like before are his new normal. maybe it never stopped being his normal, maybe the bursts of inspiration were the _ab_ normal.

 

 _this,_ sitting still and staring at a blank screen, reaching inside to grab a hold of something productive, something to offer, to connect, to create, to _live,_ and falling straight through empty air, maybe _that_ is his normal. (maybe that's him)

 

a broken machine. a missing piece. one worker in one factory forgot to install _one single piece_ but boxed him up and put him out on the shelf to sell anyway.

 

what a fucking disappointment.

 

(what a waste)

 

-

 

he always thought panic attacks would look like tearful eyes and gasps for air and shaking fists.

 

(they don't)

 

at least, he thinks that's what they are. when his heart grows heavy in his chest and his blood runs thicker through his limbs, racing, jumping, but when he presses his palm to his chest, it feels nothing more than a little faster than normal. when his head feels too light and his body feels too heavy, when he feels like he's trembling but when he brings his hands up to stare at them, they hold steady.

 

sometimes he feels like crying for no reason. ( _maybe_ no reason, he's not sure; it's not consistent)

 

it could be working too hard, sleeping too little. it could be that the universe has it out for him. but he knows it doesn't because he knows the universe could do much worse to him if it wanted to. he has it pretty good.

 

(that makes it worse)

 

so sometimes he doesn't look both ways before crossing the street. it's not disappointment he feels when he makes it to the other side, and it's not relief either. just...

 

oh well _._

 

he's made it too far to do it himself, made too many friends, too many fans, too many people who love and care for him. (sometimes he wishes they all loathed him instead)

 

he can't do anything about it.

 

(that makes it _fucking worse)_

 

-

 

it's an accident. (it's not)

 

he hits snooze on his alarm seven times before shutting it off altogether and rolling over in bed to face the wall. sleep doesn't receive him back into its arms like he wishes it would, but he doesn't get up either. changbin must've gotten up long ago at this point – all of them must have. they're probably eating breakfast, washing up, getting ready for the day. like _he_ should be doing.

 

(should he?)

 

...no.

 

what's the point? there is no 'should be'. there just _is,_ people just _are._

 

(he just isn't. but maybe that's too easy, maybe that's just an excuse. maybe he's just doing all of this himself)

 

he's selfish.

 

so he stays in bed, because he's selfish and because what _is_ the point? if he gets up now, like he's done every other morning until today, he'll just be getting up for the people who're watching, for his family, his friends, his fans, like he's done every other morning until today.

 

he can't keep living like that. he may be fucking _dumb_ (like, _really_ fucking dumb), but he's not _that_ dumb. nobody can keep living for everyone else but themselves.

 

(he's so fucking tired)

 

a soft knock pulls him from his thoughts, breaks his staring contest with the wall (because _that's_ so fun) that he didn't realize he was having until he blinks, and he hears the door creak open even though he hadn't been given any time to respond.

 

“...chan-hyung?”

 

and he doesn't think he's heard changbin sound so small since when they'd first met.

 

nice fucking going, chris.

 

a moment, just a half a second to himself, and he bends awkwardly to peak over his shoulder at the figure still halfway in the hall. that alone must be enough to at least some degree because changbin finally steps all the way in and quietly closes the door behind, hand lingering a few seconds too long on the knob.

 

the sigh that slips past his defenses feels like an ocean returning to his lungs, a refill, back to the way it was when he crawled into bed at the break of dawn after another night of _fucking nothing._

 

but his resolve is already a shattered mess at his feet and he's already rolling out of bed.

 

(he _can_ keep living for everyone else but himself, as much as he'd like to pretend he can't)

 

“i'm up, i'm up,” he says, rubbing both hands down his face. “sorry.”

 

changbin's eyes are wary. suspicious.

 

(if it's going to end, it's going to have to be a choice)

 

-

 

the days are lead.

 

oxygen isn't the vacuum, _he is._

 

he's a walking, talking vacuum, empty space, thirsting, craving to fill itself up, always drawing in but never _holding it_ , like a black hole. nothing _sticks._ it just _is_ nothing.

 

everything he does feels like an excuse, grasping at straws when he knows they're not there. empty space. (a missing piece)

 

but it's not _bad._ it's actually _good._

 

he _debuted._ he chased after his dream for _seven years_ and fucking _got it._ he wakes up every day with unconditional support from the best eight people he could ask for in the entire world standing by him, he somehow finds time despite his hectic schedule to call his parents, his siblings, has food on his plate, a roof over his head, a pillow to lay his head on at night.

 

how many people can say the same?

 

it's so, _so_ good.

 

and yet he still can't fucking _breathe._

 

(how ungrateful must he be, then?)

 

he still forgets to call his parents sometimes. he doesn't bother to fill the silence anymore when it occasionally slithers to fit itself between him and the other members. he wakes up, he eats breakfast, he gets to work, he goes to sleep.

 

the bare minimum.

 

and it's still _so fucking heavy._

 

how is everyone else still breathing the same air, how does everyone else not feel it too?

 

what's the point, _what's the fucking point-_

 

-

 

music is just something he listens to these days.

 

he sleeps whenever he doesn't have to be doing something else. (as long as it's not obvious)

 

food is still good, at least. (as long as he doesn't check the scale afterwards or glance in the mirrors as he passes them by)

 

sleep is still good, at least.

 

-

 

it's not that he _can't_ be happy. he is sometimes, perhaps lots of the time, between moments here and there, when the sound of silence is drowned out by the life of the other eight people he's living with, he laughs with them too, smiles with them, stays up watching movies with them and throwing popcorn at the screen when one of the characters does something especially stupid with them.

 

but distractions can only stretch so far. before, like a rubber band, it snaps back to its original state, natural state, default state.

 

it's his state of being, being empty.

 

he just keeps filling it with others' things, others' happiness. he steals it away between moments here and there, just to keep going, so much so he fools himself into thinking it's actually his.

 

until he's alone, and the silence returns, and he realizes it was just an illusion.

 

 _he_ is not... he's not _not_ empty. whenever he feels like he is, it's just him grasping at straws, forcing a piece of someone else's puzzle into the missing slot of his. it's not fair, it's not right, and it's not _real._

 

 _real_ is the vacuum. the silence. _that's_ what he is.

 

it always comes back to that.

 

but he can keep going. for every day he feels this way, he knows he can make it another. as much as he'd like to say he just _can't_ go on, he knows he can.

 

he just doesn't really want to anymore.

 

-

 

(he's so fucking tired)

 

each capture and release of his lungs feels so, so tangible while he just wants to be holding his breath.

 

-

 

he wrote a note.

 

a couple months before their debut, he wrote a note, because... why not? (he couldn't think of a good reason not to at the time)

 

it was safer that way, right? he was worried if the time came, he'd forget all he wanted to say, so he wrote it down as it came to him instead. it was messy and handwritten and in both korean and english, two different versions. (just in case)

 

he reread it until his eyes dried up and several parts of it were memorized. every time he thought he covered all of it, said all that needed to be said, he thought of something else.

 

for another countless time, all he felt was guilt. (sometimes it's one of the only things that fills the empty)

 

(it's as good as it is suffocating)

 

it's crushing, chilled and heavy and sharp and wide. it strangled him.

 

he stuffed the notes under his bed and retreated to the bathroom where he knew he could cry without worrying about waking anyone up. (without worrying about being caught)

 

the floor was cold through his sweatpants and the air felt thick like tar and poisonous.

 

he wished he could throw it back up.

 

like always, he cried silently.

 

-

 

he has his monthly evaluation.

 

he still doesn't know why he can't just say it.

 

-

 

changbin and jisung have to pick up his slack. where he lacks in organizing, producing, writing, they try to pull the weight, but he doesn't expect it to be the same and it isn't. he produces the songs most of the time for a reason, he's the leader for a _reason._ (was)

 

it's been like this for a while, probably, but he thinks it's starting to cement now. funnily enough, they're actually getting better at producing tracks by themselves.

 

(he isn't the vacuum, he's just... _bad_ )

 

he apologizes every single time he works tirelessly on a song just for it to fall flat, every time they brainstorm lyrics and he falls short, every time, every time, every day. whether it's out loud or in his head, he says sorry and feels small bits of himself chip away.

 

he can feel every second of it.

 

it's agonizingly slow, but he at least knows where it's going. (the least he could do is speed up the process, tear it off like a band-aid, but he just has to draw it out, doesn't he?)

 

(it's not fair to the others. his family, his members, his fans. it feels cruel)

 

he catches the tail-ends of conversations, catches the others staring, looking away when he looks back.

 

and he just _panics._

 

(hyunjin almost catches him in the bathroom this time but he just tells him he's going to take a shower)

 

but he makes an effort then, consciously laughs more, smiles more, fills the silence when it occasionally slithers to fit itself between him and the other members, he acts _normal,_ like nothing's wrong because _nothing's fucking wrong._ (maybe he's going crazy)

 

the tail-end conversations stop, the others hold his gaze with a smile when he looks back. he feels good, he feels happy, even if he knows it's not his to feel.

 

it _works,_ and the last piece of himself shatters entirely.

 

(he hates that it works and he hates himself for it, all of it, all of _this, he hates this)_

 

-

 

the last piece of himself breaking away feels a lot like nothing at all.

 

-

 

maybe there wasn't anything there in the first place.

 

-

 

he has a panic attack in the practice room. fortunately (thank fucking _god),_ it's nothing dramatic, nothing obvious, and he shrugs the jitters off as exhaustion and the others buy it hook, line, and sinker. minho suggests he take a small break and he does, sitting against the wall and closing his eyes before the room starts spinning or something equally troublesome.

 

his heart beats and his lungs expand and his skin ripples over the waves of adrenaline washing through his veins, and he breathes.

 

(he is alive)

 

moisture gathers behind his eyelids, tingles uncomfortably like his skin.

 

he swallows it down with the lump in his throat.

 

(he wishes he wasn't)

 

-

 

he's out for a walk when it happens. (he's not watching where he's going)

 

it's not quite past midnight, he would guess, but not by much. it's not alarmingly late, and he's gone for midnight walks before. it's nothing new, nothing alarming, nothing that should raise alarm, at least at this point.

 

his phone rings, and he doesn't bother looking at the i.d.

 

“ _-if he's - oh thank god,_ chris?”

 

it's english.

 

it's _felix._

 

(and he sounds fucking _terrified)_

 

his heart drops somewhere at his feet.

 

“felix? what's wrong?”

 

“chris,” he repeats it, slower this time, _stressed._ “ _...y-you should get back here. to the dorm._ ”

 

reality floats somewhere past his fingertips, out of reach, and he feels himself sway on the spot at the same time as he _can't_ feel it, his body nothing but atoms bound and buzzing together.

 

“ _please._ ”

 

(he's never been able to say no to felix, but felix hardly if ever outright _begs_ )

 

he nods to himself before croaking out a thin 'okay' and turning on his heel to begin his trek back home. he almost hangs up but, “ _and please stay on. don't hang up, i mean.”_ stops him.

 

felix still sounds so, so _scared,_ and it spreads to chris like a contagion, stirring sick in the pit of his stomach and sending spasms like shivers up his spine and through his arms, phone slipping against his cheek. it's wrong, everything feels _wrong._ (it always has)

 

“felix, tell me what's wrong.”

 

“ _when you get here._ ” he can hear someone else talking somewhere in the background, faint.

 

(for fuck's sake, _felix-_ ) “at least tell me if anyone's hurt. is everyone _okay?_ ”

 

the stretch of silence has his heart leaping to clog his throat.

 

“ _we're okay, yeah. yeah, it's-it's not like that, we're fine. please just get here.”_

 

it doesn't feel like enough – it's _not_ enough, not even _close,_ but he can't do anything but nod and keep walking, jogging, at this point, phone pressed tightly over his ear until it's throbbing beneath his fingers.

 

felix doesn't say much. he's not even sure if he's still holding the phone, as he hears far too much rustling and static, muffled conversation on and off. he didn't walk far but it feels like an eternity, fucking _time_ and it's fucking grudge against humanity. he doesn't bother asking any more questions. he just _moves._

 

he gets to the building and heads straight for the elevator. he says as much to whoever has the phone now and doesn't wait for a response before hanging up.

 

he only pauses once he reaches the door.

 

the knob turns to ice under his touch, his stomach swooping low and the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

 

he thinks of lined pages he ripped out of a notebook and stuffed under his bed.

 

did they...

 

(fuck)

 

he thinks he might throw up.

 

(fuck, fuck, _fuck-)_

 

the knob twists in his hand and the door opens before he can even blink, felix waiting on the other side with pale skin and red rims around his deceivingly dry eyes. changbin hovers right behind him.

 

he wonders if he looks much the same.

 

belatedly, he registers his hands are shaking at his sides. (he wonders if they ever stopped)

 

he doesn't say a word for fear nothing but the contents of his stomach will come out. he doesn't step forward, doesn't move a muscle.

 

( _fuck, please, no-_ )

 

changbin suddenly slips past the younger and practically drags chris inside, easing the door closed until it clicks, which chris distantly takes to mean everyone else is most likely still asleep but the thoughts don't much come to pass as they do float away, somewhere far above his shoulders, dissipating with his sense of balance. (he blames his stumble on all the incessant tugging)

 

they don't say a word as changbin ushers the both of them into their shared room.

 

he sits chris down on his own mattress and steps back shoulder-to-shoulder with felix, going still, arms stiff at his sides, just... watching. then he turns to felix, who hasn't lifted his gaze from a spot on the floor since they arrived.

 

chris can't really feel his hands anymore but he knows they're shaking even worse than they were before.

 

“we... i lost gyu and felix was helping me look for him.”

 

and just like that, it slams into him, full force, _they found it, fuck fuckfuck they found it, they_ found _it-_

 

( _they fucking_ found _it_ )

 

his ears start ringing. (not loud enough to drown out their voices)

 

“we found... we found your note.”

 

(felix finally looks up but chris is looking down instead even if he's not really seeing anything)

 

silence – it always was silence, wasn't it? swallowing him whole, all this time? he didn't know being eaten alive by it would feel so... infinite. it replaced the music in his veins and ate away at his flesh down to his bones, and now it's escaped, filling not only _his_ ears but theirs too. he wonders if they feel infinite now as well.

 

(infinity doesn't feel freeing, doesn't feel like liberation)

 

(it feels like a cage)

 

“chris?” it's felix again, still in english, and his voice is thick with what chris hopes to fucking _god_ isn't tears. “please just...” but he doesn't finish.

 

chris always hesitated in outright thinking he wanted to die. longing for the absence of existence always felt safer as well as more accurate, ringing true in the simple craving of rest, of the strings of reality to be cut, free of it all.

 

he doesn't think he's actually wished he were dead more than he does right now.

 

he can't even bring himself to care past the panic thrumming through his body, heart beating, thumping, racing somewhere outside of his chest, the room spinning, shrinking, and he feels like the room is fit inside his head instead of the other way around. like a game of jenga, the tower crumbled but the pieces are landing scattered like leaves, floating on a gust of wind and carried away.

 

he wants to fucking disappear.

 

it's claustrophobic, knowing all he can do is stare through the floor. no matter what he does, they _know._

 

they know.

 

“hyung,” a hand lands on his shoulder and a face appears between him and the floor but he's not looking. “ _hyung_ – chan, you need to breathe.” the hand shakes him a little but it feels more like it finally jostles his soul loose of his body. (but he knows somewhere that's just wishful thinking) “i won't ask you to calm down because i'm not that fucking stupid but chan, you _need_ to at least _breathe._ ”

 

(he doesn't want to fucking _breathe, he wants to stop breathing, he wishes he never started-_ )

 

he doesn't move – he doesn't think he could move if he tried. it feels as though he's choked on a galaxy and the stars are exploding in his lungs. he's on fire but his blood is freezing in his veins and turning him into a statue, still, a corpse, _he wishes he was a fucking corpse-_

 

breathe.

 

he doesn't want to but it's about the only thing he _can_ do with a body that doesn't feel like his own at the moment.

 

it feels incredibly ironic, another sick joke the universe decided to pull on him.

 

it's just another fucking joke.

 

and he's just _so_ _fucking tired._

 

-

 

“what do you want me to say?”

 

he's surprised the words even come out considering it feels as though his lungs have collapsed in his chest. but it doesn't sound like him, his voice, warbled and thick on his tongue, and it tastes like ash, choked halfway up his throat on its way out.

 

_he wants to die so bad._

 

_please._

 

(he's a fucking coward)

 

more silence. but-

 

“that's _all_ you-” felix. felix is _mad,_ energy coiled and looming somewhere far away and all too close at the same time, breathing down his neck but chris can't – _doesn't_ blame him. it's what he deserves, for even thinking about leaving with nothing but a note left in his wake. better to let him be angry now than later.

 

changbin must've stopped him, though.

 

chris wishes he didn't.

 

the silence just keeps swallowing, again and again like it can't keep him down, an endless tumble as he barely keeps his head above water.

 

(he just wishes he'd drown already)

 

“why didn't you tell us anything?”

 

_please go away._

 

changbin's still unnervingly close, knelt down in front of him and trying to catch his eye that just can't seem to focus. he doesn't _want_ them to focus but it's fine because they wouldn't even if he tried, though he can't tell if it's because of tears or something else. he doesn't think he's crying. but he thinks he might if he even tries to respond.

 

his throat keeps closing up, the world too swollen.

 

he doesn't want to cry – he doesn't _deserve_ to cry, everything's fucking _fine._ why can't his fucking brain just _fucking see that?_

 

but the smallest part of his fucking brain nudges him to _focus,_ meet changbin's gaze, honest, _be honest._

 

why didn't he tell them anything?

 

(every immediate answer crumbles under his fingers like tissue paper, lost to the wind, he can't _focus_ )

 

but he can't get his voice to work anymore, word after word clogging in the back of his throat until changbin's reduced to a smear of color, rippling when he blinks and setting loose a single tear off his eyelashes. it falls on his sleeve. just one drop. it looks like a stain there.

 

he doesn't want to cry.

 

his hands squeeze together until fingernails dig in between his knuckles and the sting there replaces the sting behind his eyes. ( _don't fucking cry_ )

 

“hyung.”

 

new hands, soft, careful, wrap around his own until the muscles there go lax.

 

when he blinks again, felix is suddenly there too, knelt down next to both of them and looking startlingly calm, almost apologetic, _he looks so fucking sad._

 

(he did that, _why did he do this?_ )

 

“i'm sorry,” he chokes out, because he's worried he'd never be able to say anything at all if he didn't just _say it_ , force _something_ out between the rocks in his throat, now growing ever more solid as his eyes warm up again, blurring everything again, choking him, a fucking _noose_ that he wishes wasn't just all in his head.

 

(stop it)

 

he's sorry for a lot of things. he should list them all, write that down instead of his farewells, read them every single day until he feels sorry enough to actually _change._

 

if he doesn't change, does that mean he's not actually sorry?

 

(he so fucking sorry)

 

is he really sorry if it was never enough to stop him?

 

if it wouldn't be enough to stop him from going through with it?

 

('it')

 

can someone actually be sorry for killing themselves?

 

“i'm sorry,” he says, again, barely a sound at all to even his own ears. he doesn't mean to say it again, except he does. he can never say it enough, a mad scramble to somehow make up for something he hasn't even done yet, as if he could even make up for something like that. he knows he can't. maybe that's why it's all he can say. “i'm so sorry.”

 

he doesn't realize his own tears are strangling him until the hands holding his own reach up to wipe them away.

 

(he can't bring himself to look at either of them)

 

trembling legs unfold, force him upright to squeeze past them, their faces, soft and sympathetic and _so fucking sad_ only to stop halfway across the room. (it's not like he can just _leave)_

 

there's nowhere to go.

 

he's trapped in his own fucking room by his own words, jotted down on bent pieces of paper on a whim.

 

(he should've waited until he was ready)

 

a hand lands on his shoulder, painfully light, and it fucking _hurts._

 

he wants anything but sympathy from them. sympathy isn't what he deserves, not for being so unhappy, ungrateful, for even considering leaving them behind as if they were nothing for no fucking reason, he feels all of this for _no fucking reason._

 

he pulls away immediately.

 

_he can't stop crying._

 

he can't fucking breathe.

 

he doesn't want to _fucking breathe._

 

they're silent, catching on his eyelids and dropping down unprompted, like they're not even his tears to cry, but it's his lungs that won't stop seizing in his chest, clenching tight until it aches, until he wants to curl up in a heap on the floor and never get up again.

 

why couldn't they have just not found the notes?

 

nobody knew. _nobody had to know-_

 

know _what_ exactly?

 

that his life is actually pretty fucking fantastic but he just doesn't feel it? doesn't feel _anything?_ what's even to fucking _know?_

 

they didn't have to know, _nobody_ had to know.

 

he could have just hung up that call and kept on walking until he stumbled across the nearest pier.

 

nobody would've known.

 

not a single soul would – _could –_ have stopped him. (maybe they still couldn't, maybe he still could-)

 

_no._

 

no.

 

this moment, _chris, this_ moment. the hardwood floor beneath the rubber soles of his sneakers, the air so still he can hear it swimming in his ears, his lungs hiccuping but _moving,_ expanding, contracting, his heart tip-tapping a beat into this ribcage like a restless hand on a table, like drumsticks somehow finding their cadence within the rush of river rapids, capsizing and drowning and breaking but still playing, still _going._

 

and felix, arms carefully circling around him from behind like he might break, like _he_ might break _felix,_ but they're steady and warm and soft and chris forces himself to stand still, to take it, to not flinch away, to unravel the knots from the very fiber of each and every muscle until he's not scared he'll fall apart at the seams on the spot.

 

changbin, suddenly clinging to his side with a new vigor, but still just as gentle, chin resting on his shoulder and breaths tickling his neck like a downy feather over his pulse, a summer breeze on a summer beach.

 

the clock on his nighstand reads one, one, colon, one, eight.

 

one hour. one hour, and he can make it to tomorrow.

 

an hour, a minute, this second, _he can make it through his second._

 

_please just make it through this second._

 

he thinks...

 

(this second, _this very second)_

 

he thinks he can do that. with the warm limbs locked with his and steady in every way he's not, he thinks maybe.

 

maybe he can't exist, maybe he just _can't,_ not like everyone else can; it just wasn't meant for him, not meant for him to handle and to understand and do with, not like humans are _supposed_ to, to simply exist because they _do_ , it never _was._ maybe he just can't feel _alive,_ maybe he just can't even fucking live.

 

but he can do this. right now, this moment, this minute, this second, _today._

 

today, he can make it to tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully that wasn't too rough of a ride, but as much as i wanted a happy ending for fiction's sake, the whole point of this fic was to touch on subjects that have less resolve, less closure, than at least what i usually see written, so i tried to have as happy of an ending as i could. cause sometimes it does feel like the only even semblance of a solution is just to do what you can, get through the moment, even if it feels like you can't make it through everything else, you can make it through this moment. if you feel like you can't make it your whole life, just make it through today, make it through this moment, make it to tomorrow. <3
> 
> i love you all. leave a comment if you have any thoughts to share or feedback of any kind. and of course, if you just need someone to talk to, whether it be in a comment or in a pm or on twitter, feel free to reach out to me or a person of your choice who you trust, or a professional, especially if you feel you're in an immediate crises. <3 
> 
> here's the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline if anyone finds themselves needing it: 1-800-273-8255 
> 
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cloud9_mp3)


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